


that others may live

by Someone_aka_Me, Trashcanakin



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 10:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20872928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Someone_aka_Me/pseuds/Someone_aka_Me, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trashcanakin/pseuds/Trashcanakin
Summary: When the pararescue need rescuing, you know things are FUBAR....When a standard parajump goes wrong, Sam and Riley are kidnapped by a rogue branch of Hydra looking to improve upon the Winter Soldier. Unfortunately, the wings give them ideas.





	that others may live

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sam Wilson Birthday Bang on Tumblr (and only three days late… oops).
> 
> I cannot say enough about my lovely artist, _Trashcanakin_, who _was_ on time and who made the absolutely amazing art in this fic. The tumblr link will be edited in here when the art is posted there, and you should go give it all the love it deserves!

_ These things I do, that others may live. _\- The Pararescue Creed

…

It’s supposed to be a fairly standard jump. 

A pilot went down in Iraq, contested area but no active combat. High possibility of shooting if they’re seen, but Sam and Riley have done harder. And it’s been too long since Sam’s had a chance to stretch his wings. 

Except that people are waiting for them, and not just a few. The moment they land the sands come alive, men coming from every direction. 

Sam gives the pilot a cursory glance even as he pulls his guns, but he can tell from here the pilot is already dead.

But that’s not the only thing that’s wrong. Something’s off about the ambush. 

It takes Sam a minute to realize what it is. Not one of the people surrounding him is Iraqi. Not in dress or in features. 

This isn’t just a coincidence, someone finding the downed pilot and waiting for someone to come after her. 

“Put the guns down,” says the figure in the front. It’s a male voice, probably, with a faint accent that Sam can’t quite place, but feels Eastern European. “You can see that you are outnumbered.”

Sam glances at Riley. His usually pale features have washed even whiter, but his grip on his gun is steady. 

Sam makes every jump with the knowledge that it could be his last. _ These things I do, that others may live _. 

That doesn’t mean he’s ready to die. 

He puts down the gun. He breathes deeply. And then someone cracks him over the head from behind, and he goes down. 

…

He wakes up alone. 

The room is small, the floor made of stone. No windows. In fact, the room contains nothing at all. One wall is made of bars, the door of a prison cell, complete with a hinged portion at the bottom to shove food through.

Someone, somewhere is screaming. 

There’s a massive welt on the back of his head, throbbing and swollen, from where some asshole knocked him out. He prods it with his fingers and hisses.

But his vision isn't blurry, he’s not dizzy or nauseated, and he seems to be processing clearly so he doesn’t _ think _ he has a concussion. 

He pushes himself up into a sitting position against the wall and scans the room in full. It’s tiny, no more than ten by ten feet, entirely made of stone except the metal door.

And Riley is missing. Along with Sam’s wings, all his guns, his vest, and his _ shoes _. 

Nothing about this promises good things.

Sam inspects the room for weaknesses in the door, cracks between the stones, but of course it’s not going to be that easy. 

Pressed up against the door, he can see a stone hallway, several more cells. All of them appear to be vacant. Off to the left, a man is standing guard. He’s wearing a tactical vest that exposes his arms, the left of which is… is that metal?

“Hey!” Sam calls. He’s not expecting much, and he doesn’t get much. Not even a flicker of acknowledgement.

“Hey, who are you? Why am I here? Where am I?”

Nothing.

Eventually, he gives it up as useless and turns from the bars, crossing the cell. 

He sinks back down against the wall. He waits. And waits. And waits. 

Eventually, he falls into an uneasy sleep. 

…

He wakes up. His whole body is just uncomfortable enough that he’s aware of it, the way he’s slept funny, the way his head still hurts. At least his arms aren’t bound. 

There’s a styrofoam plate shoved through the gate in the door. It contains one slice of mystery meat and something green that may have once been peas. A bottle of water is next to it, the seal already broken, the label and cap both stripped away. No utensils. 

Sam wonders if it’s drugged. 

He wonders if that’s better or worse than going hungry, than dehydrating himself.

He takes the plate, moves it to the wall near him. There is nothing in styrofoam that can be made into a weapon. He cannot escape with mystery meat and mashed peas. 

He wonders what they want from him. 

They haven’t asked him any questions. Yet. Maybe they will.

Worse, maybe they won’t. 

If they want information, fine, at least Sam knows how to handle that, has trained for that, can understand it. 

If they want something else… well. Sam will take things as they come. 

...

He sleeps again. He wakes up. He drinks the water.

The same guard is there, face blank, unresponsive.

Sam cannot mark time. There’s no natural light, only a few dim bulbs in the hallway.

The water isn’t drugged.

Eventually, he eats.

Time passes. 

He eats, he sleeps, he inspects the door over and over.

The lock isn’t complicated but styrofoam is too weak to pick it, and that guard is always there, watching.

Sometimes it’s someone else, but mostly it’s the man with the dark hair and the metal arm, staring blankly, never so much as fidgeting unless it’s to do a paced out loop of the prison.

The seventh time he gets a water bottle, it is drugged.

He slips away, and he wonders if he’s finally going to figure out why he’s here.

…

He wakes up, not in his cell.

He’s pinned, face down, arms spread. His wrists and ankles are both held with what feels like metal cuffs, with larger ones pinning his lower back and neck.

His shirt is gone, but thank god he still has pants on.

He feels vaguely floaty. Detached.

It takes him a few minutes to realize this probably means he’s still drugged somehow.

The only thing he can move is his head, and he twists, trying to keep silent.

He finds himself face to face with the familiar guard, bright blue eyes staring at him from an impassive face.

“The subject is awake, Dr. Christopolous.”

It’s the first time Sam has heard him speak. By the sound of his voice, he doesn’t do so often.

“Thank you, _ Soldat _.” Another new voice, this one high and reedy with a faint accent that Sam can’t place. 

The familiar guard nods, steps back, and seems to melt away. A man in a white lab coat takes his place, short and pudgy and balding. 

“How are you feeling?” the doctor asks. Sam blinks at him. Those were admittedly not the first words he was expecting to be aimed at him in this place.

He takes stock, still rising to full consciousness slowly. His body aches vaguely, everywhere, but there’s a throb between his shoulder blades that’s sharper than anywhere else, painful even through the haze. 

“I’ve been better.” The words scrape their way up Sam’s throat, dry in a way that implies an inhaled sedative.

“Subject 2 is awake and capable of speech,” the doctor says into a recording device. 

Sam goes cold. He doesn’t want to know what that means. 

He doesn’t like the word subject or the number 2 in this context.

_ Riley _?

He has no concept of how many days have passed since he and Riley were captured.

He’s been trying not to think about it, trying to operate under the assumption that Riley is fine, somewhere else in this godforsaken building because anything else is unacceptable.

It’s fine. Riley is fine.

“Can you rate your pain on a scale of 1-10?” says the doctor, as though this is an actual check up. 

“Fuck you,” Sam says, because no one ever accused him of being wise. 

The doctor sighed, and then turned away. “Subject is non-compliant. Recommend starting phase two immediately after 24 hour adaptation period.”

He puts down the recording device and pulls on a pair of latex gloves. Sam has snapped on latex gloves at over a thousand times, and never has the snap of latex against the skin of a wrist ever sounded so ominous. 

“You should probably tell me when this hurts,” says the doctor, his voice mild but his words chilling. “Because if you don’t, we’re going to keep going until you scream it at me.”

And then his hand is at Sam’s back and the world goes white hot with agony. 

_ What the _ fuck _ ? _

The rest of the haze of sedation is overwhelmed by the flare of pain that runs down his spine, over his scapulae, and into his shoulders. It feels like he’s been torn apart. It hurts down to his _ bones _.

But there’s something else, a weight, a heaviness, like he’s wearing his wingpack.

Is that him screaming?

The doctor marks something down in a notebook, hums thoughtfully, and then inserts a syringe into the IV line in Sam’s left elbow.

Another sedative, and it hits fast. The world fades out. 

...

This time he wakes up alone. The inside of this cell is starting to look too familiar. 

Everything hurts. 

He’s sprawled out on his stomach, which is incredibly unnatural for him, arms splayed wide. 

His back is on fire, his arms are throbbing, and everything else just aches. 

He takes stock. 

There’s a four inch running suture on the inside of each wrist, a bright spot of pain at the end of a dull throb along the entire length of his arms, just under the skin, like there’s been some sort of subcutaneous trauma. This runs up and into his shoulders, which are on _ fire _ . It hurts to the _ bone _. 

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and braces himself to sit up. He knows it’s going to hurt like hell.

He’s not wrong. 

His breath comes out in a harsh exhale, the only way he can keep from screaming. 

The weight on his back is still there. 

He twists his head, careful not to move his shoulders. 

His wingpack sits between his shoulderblades. 

Or. Well. His wingpack, but not. It’s the same gunmetal grey, the same familiar top joints, but the whole pack is thinner, and it sits closer to his skin, almost like…

Sam’s brain whites out as he realizes exactly what’s happened here. 

His wingpack is _ embedded in his skin _ . It’s _ anchored to his scapulae _. The wrist sutures must be wiring the full controls up his arms, giving him the same control he had before, using arm and hand gestures.

It’s…

They…

_ Why? _

He could already fly; _ what is the fucking point? _

Maybe just to see if they could. 

He wonders, not for the first time, not even for the tenth, who they are. What they _ want _ from him. 

What are they trying to make him into?

He knows, now, that they have no intention of ransoming him. You don’t do this to someone you intend to let go. 

He wonders if they think he’ll fight for them. If so, they’re in for an unpleasant surprise. Sam doesn’t care what they do to him — he’s not helping them. 

He pushes it aside, and stands, carefully, cautiously. It still hurts like a bitch. 

On his feet, he flicks his wrist in a familiar gesture to activate the motion controls, and then rolls his shoulders in an even more familiar one. Behind him, there is the smooth slide of metal past metal as the wings unfurl, barely contained in the space. 

Gunmetal grey and red curve out from behind him, jutting out from his back just inside his shoulder blades. 

He twists a hand back, running his hands over the extent of the sutures running across his back, vertical lines and careful stitches around the metal joints. They’re medical grade, clearly from someone with training. He wonders if that’s better or worse. 

He folds them in, turns off the motion control, and very carefully settles himself in the corner facing the wall.

…

The familiar guard stalks by only an hour later. His footsteps are a familiar sound by now, paced out and steady, even. 

But then, for the first time since he’s been here, they falter. The guard stops. 

Sam shifts, standing uneasily and moving toward the bars. The man has stopped short of Sam’s cell. For the first time Sam’s seen, his face isn’t carefully blank. There’s a small furrow between his eyebrows, a small downturn at the corners of his lips. He looks… puzzled. 

“What?” His voice is small, confused. “Where?” 

His eyelids flutter, blinking rapidly. And then they close, and his whole body shudders, and when he opens them again his face is blank once more. 

His steps resume, the same carefully measured pace. 

Sam frowns.

That was… weird. 

…

One restless period of near-sleep later, the same guard comes by and opens the cell. Sam considers taking the opportunity, since it’s the first time they’ve opened the door while he’s conscious.

But the second he starts to move forward, the man moves, faster than Sam had expected for a man of his bulk. The metal arm clamps around Sam’s wrists and he’s cuffed in seconds. It pulls at the muscles in his shoulders, pulling at several of his wounds. 

He hisses. “Fuck, fuck, ow.”

The man’s face doesn’t change. HIs dark hair swings in front of his face, preventing Sam from reading anything in his eyes. He’s not sure there would be anything in his eyes to see, anyway. 

Sam wonders about that brief flicker of confusion from earlier. 

“Hey,” he says. “Hey, what’s your name?”

The man’s head turns his way, but his face is blank, and he doesn’t respond verbally, just places a hand on Sam’s shoulder and pushes him forward. It’s not gentle, but it’s not rough for the sake of it either. 

Sam takes note of the hallways, but even as he does, he can’t help but think that maybe it’s a bad sign that they’re letting him see this. 

Four turns, a few poorly lit hallways, and one flight of stairs later, they enter a door that opens up into the same lab as before. 

This time instead of being strapped down to a table, Sam is led to a chair, uncuffed, and strapped in by the wrists and ankles. He shifts, trying to find a position that doesn’t press metal into fresh wounds. 

The same doctor is there. Brusquely, he takes a sample of Sam’s blood from a vein in his elbow.

“How are you feeling?”

“Why did you do this?”

Maybe being antagonistic toward the people who have kidnapped him isn’t the _ best _ plan, but Sam’s not sure how much he has to lose at this point. 

“Do what?”

“What do you gain from this? Why do this to me?”

The doctor tips his head. “We were creating a new Fist of Hydra anyway. Flight seemed… intriguing. Full of potential.”

“Who the fuck are Hydra?”

Sam’s heard that word, but only in history class – the ancient Greeks, and World War II, but they haven’t been a thing since Captain America took them down. There’s no way that’s what he means. 

“Hydra will rule. And you will help.”

“Oh, hell no. I don’t know how you think that’s going to happen, but you’re crazy.”

Except the doctor doesn’t seem upset. In fact, he smiles. “Don’t worry. You will not have a choice.” His gaze flickers to a metal band that looks like it’s ready to clamp down around his head. “But we’ll get to that later.”

He turns to a computer, makes a few notes, and then turns back and starts inspecting the healing of the sutures on Sam’s arms. 

“It’s a pity the first subject didn’t make it,” he says.

The words are so casual it takes Sam too long to realize what they mean.

“We failed to realize the full extent of the differences between replacement and addition. Foolish, of course. It should’ve been obvious from the outset that siphoning from the middle of the nerve wouldn’t work. But then, we all make mistakes. Such a pity to waste such a specimen, but I suppose you’ll do.”

Sam can’t breathe.

Riley is dead. 

Riley is _ dead _, and Sam can’t breathe. 

Riley is dead and this son of a bitch _ killed him _ and he _ doesn’t care _, not about Riley, not about the life that was lost.

Sam has never so badly wanted someone to _ suffer _. 

He feels like he’s breaking apart. He was holding on to the idea that Riley was here somewhere, fine, still alive. That they would find each other and get out of here together. That’s now impossible.

Riley has been by his side for over three years, through basic training and getting chosen for the Falcon EXO project and so many jumps and so much downtime in between. Riley is his best friend. 

Was. Riley was his best friend. 

The world goes hazy. 

There is more medical examination, more of the doctor’s prattling, and then there’s the headset descending and then there’s something shorting out and frustration and the handcuffs are back and he’s turning four corners and he’s back in the cell. 

Except that in his palm are two tiny allen wrenches that the doctor was using for a check on Sam’s wings. 

....

He knows how to pick a lock. Hell, he’s done it with a tiny allen wrench before. He and Riley taught themselves with half the tools in their wing maintenance kits. He just needs the opportunity. 

He doesn’t expect it to come as soon as it does. 

The same guard is there (and seriously, does that guy _ sleep? _), making rounds and standing at the end of the hallway and staring. 

Until his face goes all softly confused again, and suddenly he’s _ wandering away from his post _. 

And Sam knows and opportunity when he sees one. 

His hands are shaky, probably from days of sedatives, maybe from the fact that he’s in recovery from pretty major surgery, and possibly also because he’s pretty sure he hasn’t been getting his base caloric needs met while he’s been here. His fingers fumble, sliding through the bars and trying to pick the lock backwards. He drops a wrench, swearing at the clatter as it hits the stone floor, but no one comes. 

He picks it up, starts again. 

He doesn’t know what that machine was that glitched today, but he doesn’t want to know. 

He wants to go _ home _.

Something clicks, and the cell door slides open. Sam closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath, and moves forward as quietly as he can. 

He wants to clear the building. It’s a hard instinct to fight, to leave no innocent in a place like this. He wonders, for a minute, about the man who has been the face of his jailors, with long dark hair and a glittering prosthetic, about the device and the doctor’s surety, about the confusion washing across that face, but he _ can’t _. It doesn’t matter. 

Sam needs to get out. 

He can send in backup later. Right now, he is one man, injured, in pain, and unarmed. This is not a rescue. 

But it’s in Sam’s blood to rescue. It’s hard to remind himself. 

For half a second, he has the thought that he’s glad he knows Riley is gone, because if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from searching every inch of this place.

He hates himself for it. 

But he pushes it down, because he doesn’t have time. He doesn’t have time for guilt or grief. 

He needs to move. 

He starts out moving away from the lab, because that room had no windows and felt oppressive in the way a centrally located room might. 

He hits two dead ends before he runs into the first patrolling guard, a man he’s never seen dressed in black, carrying at least three guns. Sam hears him before he sees him, with enough time to duck into a side hallway, but there’s nowhere to hide that isn’t going to be immediately obvious. 

_ Fuck _.

Sam braces himself. He wants to slide his wings out for protection, but the hallway is narrow and they make too much noise, so he just grips the allen wrench like it’s a pocket knife and holds his other hand out and ready to make a grab for a gun. 

For a second, Sam thinks the man is going to walk by without glancing down his hallway. 

But he’s not that lucky. Before the man can process what he’s seeing, Sam is lunging, allen wrench at his throat and left hand already pulling the man’s handgun out of a waist holster and pulling in tight, pinning the man against the opposite wall. He doesn’t need to know that Sam doesn’t have a knife at all. Besides, now he’s got a gun. Things are looking up. 

The man’s hands are up, wide and empty, reflexive. He wasn’t even holding his own weapons. 

“Tell me where the exit is.”

Sam’s tone brooks no argument, allows for no questions. The gun is pointed at the man’s forehead now. Sam’s not as good with his left hand, but this close, aim doesn’t matter. All he has to do is pull that trigger. 

To his surprise, the man’s eyes go from wide and scared to narrowed. “Hail Hydra,” he spits out, and then he bites down and begins foaming at the mouth. Sam springs back. 

“What the _ fuck? _”

The man twitches a few time, and then falls completely limp. 

“Seriously, what the _ fuck _?” Sam mutters, before slinging the man’s rifle over his back and taking the smaller gun off his ankle as well. 

He feels better, moving forward, armed, adrenaline pumping hard enough that he can barely feel the pain in his back. 

But now there’s a body to find, so he moves faster, too. 

The next time he sees a guard, he doesn’t hesitate. He lifts the handgun, takes aim. The man goes down. 

Sam keeps moving. Five dead ends, and three flights of stairs (up, because honestly… of course they would hold him in a damn dungeon) later, Sam finds a door that looks utterly innocuous, but when he opens it, it leads into a small courtyard. Ten foot by ten foot, the brick space is filled with four picnic tables. 

It feels… wrong. That this place, this place of imprisonment and human experimentation, has an outdoor eating space. 

But even pure evil has to eat, he supposes. 

Time to try out his thrusters. They’ve minimized them, he can tell, the usual weight on his lumbar vertebrae is decreased, probably in the effort of hoping he can pass for normal with a shirt on. He’s just hoping they have enough thrust for a deadlift. 

No time like the present to find out. He twists his wrists, rolls his shoulders, feels his wings slide out. 

It doesn’t feel like it usually does. 

Usually, his wings mean freedom. A mission. Riley at his side. Danger, sure, and adrenaline, and sometimes failure too, but… Sam joined the airforce for a reason. He loves the sky. He loves his wings. 

Except… these aren’t his. They are, but they aren’t. They aren’t a choice he made. And there’s no Riley at his side. 

The sky doesn’t call to him like it usually does. 

But he closes his eyes and flexes his elbow to engage the thrusters anyway. They flare up, a telltale flood of heat near his ass, and he pushes down with his wings to lift. 

He pushes down with his wings, and he wants to scream. Instead of the pressure pulling across chest straps, distributing the force evenly across musculature that can take it, it’s all pulling at his shoulders, pulling at the places where metal is anchored into bone. 

It feels like they aren’t going to hold. It feels like they are going to rip themselves from the bone, leave him stranded here, grounded, unable to fly. 

But somehow, impossibly, they hold. The thrusters combined with the downstroke gives him just enough lift to make it to the roof.

The building is huge, but only one story is above ground. 

It’s early evening, and the setting sun gives him at least the information to get compass bearings, even if he has no idea where he is. 

He might still be in Iraq, but even that’s not certain. 

Sam closes his eyes and tries not to think about the fact that getting this far doesn’t make him free, because they’re going to notice he’s gone, and soon. 

He takes a deep breath, and then launches himself off the north side with a running leap. It hurts like hell, but his wings catch a slight wind and then an updraft, and soon the building is fading in the distance. 

…

He keeps moving, keeps pushing forward even past the first sign of civilization because it’s a small village, one where he’d immediately show up as strange, and if even one person in that village is affiliated with the people who took him, he’s screwed.

The next thing he finds is a town big enough that Sam’s hopeful he can find a radio, so he lands, because his back couldn’t take much more flight. On the outskirts of town he pulls a shirt off a clothesline and pulls it over his wings, over his back. He has no money, so he’s going to have to depend on the kindness of a stranger to radio for help, which, well… fuck. 

But there’s an old man and Sam’s halting, limited Arabic vocabulary and… probably the fact that Sam looks like he got his ass handed to him repeatedly, and then there’s a transport on its way. 

…

They take him back to base and shunt him straight into medical. 

When he pulls off his shirt, Alvarez’s eyes go wide and he hisses in sympathy. 

“What the fuck, Wilson?” 

Sam tips his head wryly. “Right?”

“What am I even supposed to do with that? There’s no way they aren’t gonna give major feedback in any scanner.”

Sam resists the urge to shrug. “Honestly, some painkillers and a few anti-inflammatories would be nice.”

“That much I can definitely do. Sedative?”

“No thanks, Alvarez. Pretty sure they want me to give a report and there’s no way I’m doing that doped up.” Sam doesn’t say that he can’t handle the thought of a sedative right now without feeling a little panicky, like he doesn’t know where he’ll wake up. 

He doesn’t have to. 

“Sure, sure.” Alvarez digs in the back and comes up with a few pills which he hands over to Sam, and then writes him a prescription for when he needs more. He inspects the scabbing over tissue on Sam’s back, the healing sutures in his arms. 

“No sign of infection, though it looks like some of these in your back split open recently. Take it easy, and take your meds.” Alvarez gives him a set of fatigues, too big, so that Sam has something that covers the wings. 

Sam nods, and then pushes himself off the bed. 

It’s time to give a report. 

…

Three hours later, Sam’s being invalided home. 

He can’t say he’s surprised by that. He can’t say he’s not disappointed either. 

But he’s also glad. It wouldn’t be the same without Riley. 

It wouldn’t be the same when every time he flies is a reminder. 

Sam has classified government property strapped to his back and they can’t remove it, as much as they might want to. Not without risking his life, and Sam’s not about to let them do that. He tells them as much.

They send him to his bunk to pack. 

It feels weird, being back here. The barracks are as neat as ever, beds made and no one around in the middle of the day. The beds that were once his and Riley’s are empty. 

There is a hole inside Sam’s chest and it _ aches _. 

_ Missing in action. _

Gone for over a week, their things would be packed up and stored in the back. 

Sam knows, as he moves that way, that he’s disengaging from his surroundings. Everything is starting to feel unreal, floaty, and he’s been here before. 

He’s almost grateful for it, because it gives him the ability to open the closet, to pull out the box that says _ Wilson _ and shove everything in his pack. 

And then he stops, staring at the box that says _ Underhal _. 

_ Riley. _

And there is a boy with a bright smile, blond haired and blue eyed, grinning at Sam in basic, sticking out a hand and declaring them friends. There is a voice on the other side of the coms, warm and deeper than anyone ever expected out of Riley. There is a spiraling figure in the sky next to him, a joyous whoop as Riley banked hard. 

There are so many moments that will never happen again. 

And Sam thinks about a list, started on a mess hall napkin in Sam’s shitty handwriting, later transferred to the blank pages in the back of Riley’s Bible in his elegant cursive. 

Some of them are names. Some of them are just descriptions. 

_ Maya Riviera. _

_ Three Civilians at Red River. _

_ The Bolen Family (5) _

They’d started the list after a jump gone wrong, a kid they couldn’t save — a reminder that a failure did not negate successes. 

_ These things I do, that others may live _. It was the PJ Creed, but it was more than that. It was a reminder. 

In three years of jumps that list had reached 357 people. They were running out of space. 

And it helped. On bad days, when they were too late, when the information came in too slow, when mistakes were made on a scale that cost _ human lives _… it helped. 

_ These things I do… _

And Sam had been ready to give his own life if that’s what was asked of him. 

_ that others may live _.

But he hadn’t been ready to give Riley’s. 

He takes down the box, and he takes the Bible. 

…

“Hey, Mama.”

Sam’s voice is a little sheepish, because he’s only now realizing he never called her, could only think of getting home. Mostly, though, mostly he’s just relieved.

He looks at his mom’s face, surprise giving way to joy and relief, and he knows he’s finally home. 

There was more than one moment when he thought he might never see her again.

“Samuel Thomas Wilson, never do that to me again,” she says, and then she’s stepping forward and Sam is falling into her arms and leaning down to bury his face in her hair and he feels her hands skid across the wings, feels her tense with the questions she wants to ask and then relax as she decides to ask them later. 

And then, for the first time since all of this began, Sam is crying. It’s grief and pain and relief all mixed up together, and he is clutching at his mother like he can go back to being five years old and fitting into the curve of her arms, and his mom just clutches him in return and rubs a hand across his shoulder and doesn’t say anything at all. 

…

Sam doesn’t tell her all of it. 

He can’t. There are things that would hurt her, things that don’t matter but would hurt her, and he can’t do that. 

  
This hurts her enough. 

Showing her the wings, jutting out from scabbed over wounds.

She presses her hand to her mouth. 

This time, Sam does not cry. He’s not sure if that’s a good sign. 

He tells her about Riley — about the man she’d never met, but had loved all the same through Sam’s letters. 

She hugs him again. 

Sam hates that they never got the chance to meet. His mom would’ve loved Riley. 

….

  


Sam runs.

He runs to remember that this body is his, he controls it, no matter what they did to him.

He feels the flex and burn of his muscles remembering how to do this and it feels like a purification, a reclamation.

It’s not enough, but it’s something.

He runs to forget the wires under his skin, the sensation of metal creeping through his veins, the way he looks at the scars down his forearms and can only remember what they took from him.

He runs at god-forsaken times, starting at three am when the streets aren’t sleeping but they’re quiet enough that he can hear the swell of his own lungs. He tries to outrun his nightmares, to leave behind the sound of Riley screaming as he dies, as they kill him over and over, as they take him apart to understand how to make Sam into the weapon they want. It’s things he saw and things he didn’t all twisted together into a nightmarish hellscape he can’t escape, and so he runs.

It doesn’t work, but he tries.

…

He wears baggy sweatshirts which tend to make him look like he has a hunchback, but at least those stares are better than the ones that would come from having wings. 

He doesn’t fly. 

He can’t. The mere thought of it makes him want to hide under the covers in his childhood bedroom and never emerge. 

Eventually, he gets off the miles-long VA waitlist and into therapy. It’s less because he wants to and more because he knows he needs to, based on the way he’s barely sleeping and still hasn’t managed to pick up a solid job because a ten minute interview is enough to show he’s coming apart at the seams. 

His therapist is a woman called Mina, five-foot nothing with the tell-tale posture of someone who served herself. She has a low tolerance for bullshit but a kind smile.

And it sucks. 

Talking about what happened? It _ sucks _. He feels stripped bare every time, flayed open in front of Mina while she sits composed. 

But it helps, too. It helps to articulate how he feels. To articulate how unfair it feels that he and Riley were kidnapped at all. How unfair it is that Riley died. That Riley _ left him behind _. 

To articulate all the ways he felt… feels violated by what was done to him without his consent, because he didn’t matter to them. 

To articulate the way he can’t escape it now because there is scar tissue running up his forearms and wings welded into his scapulae and even if he just wants to forget he _ can _’t. 

It helps. 

…

He tries to keep his runs to hours when the sun is up. 

He still goes to therapy occasionally but he’s also started leading groups, and he’s even looking into classes to get the training to be a full psychologist working for the VA. 

He only wakes up screaming once or twice a month, instead of every night. 

He’s getting better. 

Which is, of course, when Captain America shows up. 

…

Steve Rogers is a little shit. None of the history books mention that. 

He doesn’t question why Sam is going for a run in a too-big sweatshirt just as the sun is rising in the East. Instead, he just relentlessly laps Sam, grinning cheekily at him every time.

It feels good to have someone give him shit.

So when Steve comes up to him after the run to introduce himself, Sam can’t help but give him shit in return.

And then Sam is recommending Marvin Gaye’s _ Troubleman _ and telling Steve to stop by the VA.

And then the Black Widow shows up and Steve is gone and Sam figures he’ll never see him again.

…

Two weeks later, Steve shows up at his door.

And. Well.

There’s a reason Sam became a PJ. 

He wanted to help people. He still does.

And Steve Rogers is a little shit, but he’s also the man who drove a plane into the ocean to save the world.

Sam hasn’t flown since he left Iraq. 

Maybe Steve is worth flying for. 

So Sam pulls off the purple sweatshirt and offers his help — the full scope of it. All that he is capable of. 

He watches Steve’s eyes catch on the wings, watches his confusion, watches them widen when Sam pivots enough for them to see that they are attached. 

Sam shrugs at the question Steve is too polite to ask. “Shit happens when you’re a POW,” he says, as he tends to when he doesn’t have the time or the mental energy to get into it. 

And he’s judged right, because it’s not pity that washes across Steve’s face — it’s understanding. 

Sam knows the story. Barnes, Steve’s best friend, was a POW. Steve tore Hydra apart to get him back. It’s the closest anyone can get to understanding without actually being a POW themselves. 

This is why Sam is following him. 

Steve gets it. Steve knows what’s worth fighting for. 

And, if he’s honest? Sam misses it. 

…

And then they’re interrogating a _ Hydra _ agent because it turns out that the assholes who kidnapped Sam four years ago really are _ that _ Hydra, back with a vengeance. 

Sam feels like the fact that it was _ literal fucking Nazis _ is really just adding insult to injury here. 

_ Nazis _ . Seriously, _ come on _. 

And then they’re taking Sitwell in when someone starts shooting up Sam’s car which, _ rude _ . Sitwell goes flying, and Steve is grabbing the emergency break and Sam’s car is skidding to a halt, sending the guy who is _ on top of his car _ flying. 

Sam knows that arm. 

Sam knows that hair. 

He’s always wondered. The base was empty by the time anyone got to it, and for the most part Sam hadn’t cared, but he’s always wondered about the man who wandered away from his post and gave Sam the chance to make his move.

This isn’t how he expected to meet again.

To be fair, he _ never _ expected to meet again.

But then his car is hit from behind and this familiar asshole is flipping over the top of his car and then Sam’s _ steering wheel _ is _ ripped from his hands _ and honestly what the fuck. Who _ does that _?

And then they’re jumping out of a moving car using just the passenger side door and everything goes tight and focused as adrenaline pours through his body. He uses a pocket knife to get his hands on a gun and provides Steve with cover from up high, first from the bridge, and then from the sky. 

Then there’s an arrest and an escape and and infiltration and then they’re in the sky taking down helicarriers that are set to murder _ millions _. 

Sam’s thinking about the millions but he’s also thinking about his mom, his sister, his neice, wondering if any of them are radical enough to make Hydra’s list. Wondering if all of them are, just because of him. 

Taking to the air, weaving in between gunfire and shrapnel, it feels… right. In a way that nothing has in a long time. 

It’s like riding a bike. Except that it’s dangerous carbon-fiber wings and a jetpack, all embedded under his skin. 

So maybe it’s nothing like riding a bike at all. 

And there he is, the man Steve called Bucky, the man Sam remembers. 

Sam remembers the flick of confusion, and he knows that there is more than the Winter Soldier there, but it doesn’t make a difference when he’s grabbing Sam by the wing and yanking him back into the air, sending Sam flipping until he can right himself. His left shoulder throbs angrily as he pulls out his gun, taking as many shots as he can. 

He doesn’t see the grappling wire coming until it’s embedded into his left wing, pulling him down forcefully enough to shake the anchors.

The second pull tears his wing right off. 

Sam is screaming. His entire left side is on fire, the anchoring socket is searing pain. There’s no sensation in the wing itself, but he’s pretty sure at least one bone screw is no longer where it should be, and a nerve is pinched by the shift of metal, and Sam is screaming. 

He can barely right himself by the time Bucky is on him, boot at his chest, and Sam is falling, falling, failing. 

One thing Hydra didn’t feel the need to put in his new wings?

The parachute. 

Sam’s never been sure if that was because they were cocky enough to think he wouldn’t need it, or if they just counted him as a trial run, expendable.

He didn’t figure it would matter, since he didn’t plan to fly again. 

He didn’t plan for this. 

He wrenches his body around, pulling on already pained muscles, and flares out the right wing, pulling it into a tight spiral. It’s the best he can do in the time it takes him to hit the ground, _ hard _. 

He’s going to feel that tomorrow. 

He takes stock. One wing down, he can’t fly for shit. 

“I’m grounded. Sorry, Cap.”

…

In the end, millions don’t die. Steve ends up in the hospital with half the Potomac in his stomach, but he’ll recover. The super serum is nice like that.

The doctors take one look at Sam and ask if there’s a specialist he can see.

Which is how Sam winds up at Stark Tower, in front of Tony Stark and Bruce Banner.

“Steve,” Sam says. “Steve, man, I gotta ask. If you had the damn _ Avengers _on speed dial, why the fuck did we just do that alone?”

Steve has the grace to look sheepish. 

“I, ah. Well.”

Sam rolls his eyes, and turns to the scientists. “I hear you guys can fix me up.”

Stark shrugs. “Medicine is more Banner’s area than mine, but Steve promised me a puzzle.”

“Now that, I can provide. Gotta warn you, though, labs aren’t really my thing.”

“Medical, then?”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “You have a whole medical department _ in this tower _?”

Stark shrugs, careless. “Work hazards, you know how it is.”

Sam does _ not _ know how that is, but he follows Stark and Banner to the medical floor anyway. 

When he takes off his sweatshirt, Stark actually _ rubs his hands together in glee _. He looks like Christmas has come early. Actually, he probably doesn’t even get this excited for Christmas. 

“Shit, okay, Cap was right, this is my area. Can you expand it for me?”

Dutifully, Sam twists his wrist and roles his shoulders, ignoring the flare of pain from the left side as his body tries to send signals that nothing is there to receive. 

“Is it feeding off nerve endings?”

Sam shakes his head. He’s not an engineer, he doesn’t know exactly how they work, but he knows this much. “They pull electricity from my muscles when I flex them, and convert that to a signal the pack can receive. As I understand it, there’s basically a shit ton of tiny lightning rods under my skin that are picking up those pulses.”

He tries to hand Stark the EXO folder, which at least contains the schematics from _ before _ the wings became Sam’s appendages, but Stark waves him off. Banner takes it, flipping through it, before handing it off. 

Banner is the one who gloves up and looks at the fresh hole in Sam’s back, fingers gentle but swift, as Stark looks at the extended wing. 

“So basically we could—” Stark starts. 

“Yeah but we’d have to—”  


“Obviously, but how—”

“The carbon fiber means—”

“Right but—”

“Oh, right, of course.”

Sam blinks at them. “Um. Could I get a translation?”

Banner looks sheepish. “Sorry. We… well, basically we’re going to have to do a few tests and scans, but we should be able to fix it. If you… want it fixed. We probably couldn’t take out some of the anchoring, but we could take the right one off, and you’d heal over. Metal detectors would be hell, but.” Banner shrugs. 

And… well. Honestly, it’s not a choice Sam thought he’d have. 

Four years ago, Sam would’ve asked them to remove it without hesitating. 

Now?

Now things are different. 

Sam can’t leave Steve alone. 

Thanks to Steve, the wings feel like _ his _. Again. For the first time. 

Sam can do good like this. He can help people. 

“Fix it. The left.”

“I can _ improve _ it,” Stark says, but before he’s even done Sam is shaking his head. “No thanks. Just. Fix it, please.”

…

Two weeks later, Sam is rolling his shoulders to unfurl two identical wings. He turns to Stark and Banner, standing behind him on the roof of Stark Tower. 

“Thank you. For everything.”

“You’re welcome,” says Banner. 

“Still think you should’ve let me upgrade them,” mutters Stark.

Sam ignores them both and takes off into the sky. 

…

It feels like an ending. 

It feels like a beginning. 

  
But there’s still the matter of Bucky. 

Bucky, who is missing. 

Bucky, who Steve is determined to chase all over Europe. 

It’s not until Steve has to go to New York for an Avengers thing that Sam sees Bucky again. 

He’s on a park bench in Berlin when a man sits next to him.

For a moment, Sam doesn’t even recognize him. His body language is careless, lax, sprawled. It’s a good look. It’s also clearly a disguise, a lie. 

But Sam knows those eyes. 

“You’re the man with the wings,” he says. “In Iraq. I remember you.”

Sam nods. 

“You… you let me escape.”

Bucky sighs. His hands are twisted together in his lap, hidden under the sleeves of a sweatshirt so that no one can tell one is metal. 

“It wasn’t on purpose. I… The asset… The Soldier wasn’t built for guard duty. Or for being out of cryo for long periods of time. Not with the serum. Too long, and I would start to… remember. Not enough to understand, but enough to be… confused.”

“You don’t have to tell me this,” Sam says, softly, making sure that Bucky knows he _ can _, but he doesn’t owe Sam this.

“I know,” he says. “But… you deserve to know. What they wanted.” 

Bucky turns to face him then, piercing Sam with his blue eyes. “They wanted to make you like me. That’s what the machine did. With the headpiece. They were trying to make more Soldiers. Better ones. Not like the times they failed before.”

  
Sam holds his gaze, takes this in. 

He processes, for the first time, exactly _ how close _ he was to never escaping. To becoming… like Bucky. Brainwashed. Lost. A weapon fighting a war Sam _ hated _. 

“Thank you,” Sam finally says. “I know you didn’t… do it on purpose, but still. You gave me the chance to escape.”

Bucky looks away. 

“I’m glad at least one thing I did… was good.”

And it’s that moment when Sam sees exactly how much Bucky is coming apart at the seams, barely holding himself together. 

Sam doesn’t know exactly what he’s feeling, but he knows what it’s like to feel like you might explode with everything you’re trying to process. 

“You can come home,” Sam offers, making sure that it sounds like a choice and not a demand. 

Bucky blinks a few times. Sam wants to make him a blanket fort and a cup of hot cocoa. 

“I don’t… I’m not who… Steve wants me to be. Not yet.”

“Steve just wants you to be _ safe _.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Steve wants me to be Bucky. And I’m not… ready. To be. Him. I don’t know how to be what Steve remembers. And I… can’t.”

For a moment, Sam wonders if he’s dissociating. But in truth, he knows what Bucky means. Steve expects things. It’s true that he just wants Bucky safe, but he also expects things. 

So Sam nods. 

“It’s not a one time offer. Whenever you’re ready.”

Bucky smiles, just a little, softly, and Sam… well. Sam didn’t know what Bucky’s face was gonna do when he smiled, but he can’t say he was expecting it to do _ that _. 

It’s… nice. 

...

“Hey, Riles,” Sam says to the familiar headstone. He sits in the dirt, like he always does, legs sprawled. “Miss you.”

It’s been a while, after all. The last time he was here was before Bucky came back. 

“Yout would not believe the shit these dumbasses get into, honestly. Bucky is a terrible shower hog, and Steve likes to try to tackle him for it and they wind up wrestling in the middle of the damn living room.” He smiles fondly. “You’d love them, Riles.”

“Bucky’s back, and he’s… well. Honestly, he’s doing better than I expected, given everything. You and I know shit like that doesn’t heal overnight. Lord knows it took me long enough to get my shit together.” He sighs. “I wish you could meet them, Riley.” He bites his lip. “I’m still sorry. I know it’s not my fault, I know, I know, but I’m still sorry.”

Sam runs a finger over the R carved into the headstone. “But going after the bastards that did it helps.”

He launches into a story featuring Steve, Bucky, a rosebush, and a skunk after that, avoiding serious topics and just talking. 

It always helps. He misses Riley so badly some days it feels like there’s a hole in his side, but… these days it’s less sharp.

Eventually, he stands, dusting off his pants. 

He runs a finger over the top of Riley’s headstone, and says, “Love you, Riles.”

And then he walks away. 

_ Riley Underdal _

_ 1980-2010 _

_ “these things I do _

_ that others may live” _


End file.
